Drum roll please....... all votes have now been verified, and the winner of the signed paperback of Godhead is...Laura James! CONGRATULATIONS! Please contact me with your address so I can get the book posted out to you.

Okay, so on with tonights show. Tonight we have an amazing flash fiction piece from Ken Mooney, and trust me when I say this, you are in for a real treat!

Enjoy.

The Fall Of Bacchus Flash Fiction Piece

She looks in the mirror once more, smoothing the non-existent creases across her white bodice, feeling the intricate embroidery on her fingertips. She tries to hold a pose, dignified steel in her eyes, but can’t resist the smile that spreads across her lips, the wonder and glee in her eyes. This must be what her parents had seen on birthdays and Christmas mornings, a little girl brimming with delight at what her future could hold. “They’re waiting for you.” “I know, papa. Just…” She thinks she sees tears threatening to fall on his red cheeks, knows they won’t be the first of the day. “You look beautiful. Like always. It’s time...” The smell of his last cigarette, of the morning whiskey they had all shared fills her nostrils as he kisses her on the cheek and leads her to the door. She expects a flittering silence; she expects the organ to start uncertainly, its pride building slowly but graciously. There should be faces turning to look at her. But there is another woman in her place, tall and blonde and everything she is not. Their eyes are on her, not on this entrance. Fear builds in her chest as her jaw clenches, as her mind races with questions: was all a lie, the ring, the love-poems, the promises? Her eyes search the small chapel, but she can’t see him. He isn’t the only one. What sits in front of her are only vacant, lifeless shapes: there is no life here, not any more. This Other Woman, she drops something: her father steps in front of her, hoping to shield her from the sight, but she sees the priest’s withered face, his bulging eyes and desiccated skin as he falls on marble floors. “You have no place here, Aphrodite.” The voice she hears is her father’s, but it is different, deeper. In this chaos, it makes her feel safe. “These people...my daughter…they’re not a part of this.” The Woman turns, and she expects some monstrous face full of sharp teeth and dark eyes. Instead there is warmth, a love that makes her feel at ease, that tells her that this is release, not punishment. There is movement, too fast to comprehend as the Woman rushes forward, as her father gurgles and falls backward. Something strikes her chest, a warm splatter against her face. She lowers her eyes to see red streaks down the front of her perfect white moment, a lifeless head with no body lolling on the floor, eyes staring up at her, wide with fear and apology. “Papa…” Something escapes her throat, but the Woman is holding her face in her hands, pushing herself closer, forcing her to look away from death and destruction. She loses herself in those white eyes. “I am sorry, child. I know this is not what you wanted. He may have been your father, but you are not his daughter. This bloodshed is not your fault, nor is it yours to remember.” She feels cold fingers slipping through her skull, feels the world around her fade. She feels them slipping away from her; her father, her fiance, her friends and their love. The Woman is gone, and all she can do is look at death around her. She feels nothing.

Where did you grow up?Dublin, IrelandWhat made you start writing? I've always wanted to do it. I think I started with something that would best be described as "fanfiction" now, though I hate that word. That's right, Power Rangers fan-fiction. I went there…(I was eight…)Is it something that you have always wanted to do?Yep, absolutely. I can't think of a time where I've ever not wanted to, or where it wasn't on the cards in some form.What is your favourite genre to read, and do you have any favourite books or authors you would like to recommend?I love all sorts of genres, and it's one of my pet peeves to generalise by genres: there are amazing genre books, and there's an awful lot of trash out there. But the same goes for literary fiction and the classics. On the fact of it, I guess I like horror, fantasy, sci-fi thrillers, but usually ones with a real-world focus. I'm a big fan of writers that can write a traditional novel but with a genre twist, writers like Chuck Palahniuk, Bret Easton-Ellis, Douglas Coupland. Though I think that could say more that I'm a fan of broken characters rather than specific genres.

Do you ever base your characters on anyone that you know, or are they solely from your imagination?I'd love to say no, but I think that would be a lie: I think all writers take elements of the world around them when building a world or the characters within that world. Strictly speaking, that's still a no. But there are expressions, turns of phrase, relationships between characters that I have…borrowed from real life. Perhaps two characters might interact in a fashion similar to a couple I see on the bus, or a character might look lik someone I used to work with, but that's only one small aspect of that character or what makes them. I don't think I'd ever be brave enough to base a character fully on anyone I know. About your book‘s.

Tell us about your latest book. The story/plot.The latest release is called Godhead, and it's a dark fantasy that brings the Greek gods to the present day. It's a story of gods and demons, with humans stuck in the middle of an epic struggle that they could never truly comprehend. The gods of Olympus have been betrayed by Aphrodite; the city's been destroyed and the gods are left roaming the earth, trying to fit in with humanity. Thousands of years later, some of their descendants try to continue their work, and Godhead follows a handful of these descendants, only some of whom know who and what they are. Into the middle of this mix, Aphrodite rears her head once more, thinking he might have found a way home. And that our characters' inexperience may be the key to getting her there.What gave you the idea?I've always loved classical mythology and religion, and I've always been a big fan of any story where good fights evil: it's a perfect backdrop for the greater stories about what makes us tick and why. I can't pinpoint a specific time or place that Godhead came about, since it was actually born from a couple of different ideas coming together.

What genre is it?

It's a dark fantasy, but set in the present day, so there's a lot in common with contemporary and urban fantasy, along with a healthy dose of classical and comic-book references.

Who is your favourite character? And why?When I was first writing the book, I thought my favourite character was Megan: she was an easy character to get into her head, and while I treat the book as an ensemble, she's probably the major character during the book's opening. But then a few drafts later, I'd fleshed out Aphrodite and her motivations, and her character and…there's just something about her that I can't put my finger on, but I absolutely love. She's a villain, but her motivations are pure, and come from a place of very human emotion.

And worst?Least favourite character? Oh, that's a tricky one? I find Hannah a bit frustrating to write, all for much the same reasons as I like Aphrodite: Hannah's pretty stuck in her own world, completely and utterly wrapped up in what she considers to be important. She's so anal that it's difficult to get through to her, either as a friend, a reader, or a writer. Mind you, that's exactly how she's supposed to be, so I can't really complain, can I?What are your hopes for it?I just genuinely want people to read it and enjoy it. I love to obsess over books, and so far, a few readers have obsessed over the book, which has been pretty cool. I've quite a visual idea in my head of how everything looks, and I would love to see the day where Godhead gets turned into a comic or a movie or TV series. But it's not for the money or the fame: it's just to see all this cool stuff play out in that visual style.

What’s the project that you’re going to be working on next?I'm currently working on the sequel to Godhead; it's called The Hades Contract, and I'm hoping to have it out in early 2014. There's also an unrelated project called The Magician's Kiss that I may revisit if I have the time. And there's also a non-fiction book too, that I can't really talk about at the moment…but it'll fit in with the general feel of Godhead…

What’s the best piece of advice that you have been given in regards to your writing, and by whom?I attended a writing seminar in 2012, around the time when I was trying to decide if I really wanted to write something or not, if I truly wanted to do this. It was presented by Vanessa O'Loughlin, though she also publishes as Vanessa Fox. There were two things she mentioned in passing that have run through my mind when writing and editing: the first was to know what your characters' weaknesses are, to know what they're afraid of. I don't think it even needs to be on the page, but you need to know in your head. Also, in terms of description…you should know where the light is coming from. When you're writing a fantasy book, that's especially interesting, because you also know where the shadows are…

If you haven't checked out his novel yet, then I hope that I've convinced you too. Be sure to leave a review in all the correct places after reading too.

Tonight we have Ken Mooney on the blog with his book Godhead. Yep, he was here over the weekend as he had his ebook for free, which if I'm totally honest, threw out my schedule! Anyway, he's had a slap on the wrist for it, and it looks like it's all worked in our favour since he is now offering a FREE signed paperback of Godhead! Wooooo!

All you have to do is go over to his Facebook page and give him a 'like'http://on.fb.me/17AHa2sthat's it. If you already 'like' him on Facebook, follow him on Twitterhttps://twitter.com/kenmooneyOnce you have done one or both of those things (doing both gets you two chances), go to the event page and leave the comment: 'Aphrodite is a naughty goddess'. http://bit.ly/18wYasS Once all entries have been verified, I'll announce a winner. This competition will go on until tomorrow morning, so don't think that it's too late for you.If you want to read more after the excerpt attached, go directly to his website to read an extra little snippet.http://kenmooneybooks.com/

Tomorrow night he'll be back again with an amazing flashfiction piece entitled 'The fall of Bacchus'

Happy reading

Claire ♥

Ken Mooney was born in Dublin, Ireland and still lives there. From an early age, he wanted to be an author or a writer, going all the way back to when he used to write continuations of his favourite TV shows, films and comics: it's too embarrassing to discuss the contents here and now.

Ken attended Trinity College Dublin where he studied English Literature, furthering his love of genre fiction and the act of storytelling. A variety of desk jobs helped to pay the bills, but Ken was always found tapping away at a keyboard, and just couldn't get certain ideas out of his head.

Godhead was one of those ideas; it was originally written nearly fifteen years ago. Like most things, it's changed significantly since then, but the bare bones are still there. What it's turned into, however, is something completely different.

Ken works in the TV advertising industry, and when not writing or working, he can usually be found reading all sorts of literature or comics, playing video games, watching TV or movies...and then arguing over their literary merit (or lack thereof.)

A Quick Get To Know The Author

FIVE FACTS ABOUT YOU THAT PEOPLE WON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU. CAN YOU JUGGLE? RIDE A BIKE WITH NO HANDS? DRINK BEER UPSIDE DOWN? SOMETHING UNUSUAL… GO!

1.You can probably tell I wear glasses, but I can't see a thing without them.

2.Since you mentioned riding a bike with no hands…I can't. Ride a bike. At all. No sense of balance.

3.I used an ATM next to Colin Farrell once.

4.I've an unhealthy obsession with Mean Girls.

5.Nine times out of ten, I'll kick all the covers off me when I sleep.

FIVE FACTS ABOUT YOUR NEWEST BOOK THAT PEOPLE WON’T KNOW. SOME BACKGROUND HISTORY ON ONE OF YOUR CHARACTERS MAYBE? MAYBE IT WAS GOING TO BE CALLED SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT TO START OUT WITH? IS IT THE SAME GENRE IT STARTED OUT AS?...

1.It was originally going to be called Kaos Rising (Kaos being the force of demons.)

2.In the first draft, Aphrodite died at the end. Infer spoilers as you will.

3.Two characters didn't make it to the final cut; one was moved forward from a later book to cover them. 4.The scene where Megan's grandfather passes away is based on the death of my own grandfathers; both of them died in pretty similar circumstances within a month of each other. That scene was a way of dealing with that, and sort of acknowledging them.

5.My favourite part of the book is the last sentence.

FIVE FACTS ABOUT YOUR NEXT BOOK… NAME, GENRE, EXPECTED DATE OF RELEASE…

1.It's called The Hades Contract. It's god Hades in it; there'll also be a contract…

2.I'm hoping it'll be out early 2014.

3.I'm ridiculously excited to see what my designer comes up with the cover. I hope it's red.

4.Godhead is heavily inspired by The Odyssey and Oedipus Rex; The Hades Contract is a bit more courtroom drama… 5.I've planned three short stories to fill the gap between the two, and hoping the first will be published on my website in September/October.

THREE TIPS THAT YOU THINK MIGHT BE USEFUL FOR OTHER AUTHORS… ANYTHING YOU WANT. IT COULD BE, TO WRITE A CERTAIN AMOUNT EVERY DAY, ONLY WRITE AFTER MIDNIGHT AND NEVER GET GIZMO WET (SORRY, THAT’S GREMLINS NOT WRITERS! MY BAD.) MAYBE IT’S SOME INFORMATION THAT WAS GIVEN TO YOU THAT HAS HELPED YOUR PROCESS…1.Some scenes never work. Just keep going through them; you'll pick it up in edits.

2.Never trust the story to be final until you've published. You'll make changes till the end, but at least then, it's too late. 3.Know your characters inside and out: it doesn't have to show on the page, but if you don't know them, scrap em.

Goodhead Teaser & Cover

Olympus would soon be in ruins. The sky overhead burned, smoke and flames licking against a blue dome that arced overhead. That same sky should have been free of clouds, save for when the rains were permitted to come and tend the land. But a black fog had come to spoil its perfect clarity, a thick creature of embers and ashes that haunted the sky, attacking eyes and lungs. Its tendrils whipped through the air, branches of smoke reaching forward in the darkness, ready to wrap their arms around the city. War had come to Olympus, and it would not be quick to leave: it had worked its way through the city’s streets, into its buildings, into the homes and hearts of the city’s inhabitants. It had spread like a sickness, a virus that gathered momentum as it had grown in strength, consuming everything it touched. Only one place had remained untouched by battle, but even here, the signs of war could not be ignored: the Great Temple dominated Olympus’ skyline, giving a view of the city with its mountainous walls on all sides. Smoke obscured the view, but as the thick billows ebbed and flowed, the Great Temple provided a singular watchtower for the city’s destruction. The temple was set atop a stone plateau that rose in the centre of the city; its sides were steep, rising near-vertical from the ground, dark greys lined with gold and marble veins that reflected always-dazzling sunlight. A single flight of steps led up these sharp sides, hewn into the rockface, white marble marching steeply towards the temple’s doors. These steps were a symbol, a test: they were not there to be climbed. They were a penance that visitors should undergo before the gods would entertain them, before they would be allowed access to the temple. As one climbed the steps, the temple rose ahead, filling the gaze, a vast courtyard before it that served as meeting place and statuary. Curved colonnades embraced this plaza, much as the mountains embraced the city below: in each archway stood a different sculpture, heroic figures forged of gold, hewn from marble and stone, keeping watch on this hallowed place. The Great Temple itself rose behind another twelve mighty steps; the building was round, so vast that its size and shape could only be appreciated from the city far below where its white marble burned as a second sun in the daylight, remained an unmoving moon in the twilight. The walls were punctuated with small balconies and windows, walkways and stairs snaking their way between them. But these could not be seen from the courtyard: from here, the temple’s greatest feature was its doors. Constructed from the same marble as the building, the doors were flush with its surface, decorated with gold etchings and jewels. These doors were usually open, welcoming visitors inside after their harsh climb. But at this time, the doors had been sealed, closed against the world outside. This was the home of the gods, and war had come to their city. *** The vast room behind the Great Temple’s doors did not have a name: it was a throne room, a council chamber, a place of festivities that occupied the entirety of this level. Twelve balconies lined the room, giving access to just some of the pathways and chambers that led to the other parts of the Temple. The walls of this room rose high, forming an incomplete dome in the centre of the ceiling, open to the usually-perfect sky beyond. But now it admitted only smoke and ash: the absent sunlight cast the edges of the room in significant shade. Opposite the door, a large throne dominated the room: like much about the temple, it was hewn from perfectly white marble, but this was unblemished with any veins, an oddity in itself. It had no identifying features save for its size, wide enough for several men to sit in, high enough at the back that even were a man to stand on the seat, he would not be able to reach its top. But this room’s most dominating aspect, its most unusual feature, was the pool in the centre of the floor: many believed that the pool was endless, that its depths reached into the very bowels of the earth itself, deeper than any man, mortal or god, could go. Even as the gods had built their temple into the rock beneath this place, they had found the ground beneath this pool unyielding. At its centre was a tree, a bark of silver-white wood that shimmered with light, even in this dark hour. The tree grew from the water itself, its roots stretching just under the surface. It was always in bloom, regardless of the season, always shimmering with a white light that cast rainbows through the water underneath and the marble walls of the room. Some of its blossom had fallen, white petals floating on the smooth water below, clinging to life even as other flora would have drowned. The Olympians had no formal name for this tree: it had been here longer than the city, would no doubt remain even after the walls around it had crumbled. But they knew the truth of its fruit: this was the source of their powers, the very thing that had made their ancestors gods. Many of them believed that the tree was linked to their souls, that if they died, their Essence would return to this place and passed onto another. The war already had a high cost: if this story was true, many of the gods had already returned to the tree. This great room, usually bustling with life, was empty save for one woman, bent low as she stared into the hidden depths of the pool. As she stood to pace, she glanced at the great doors, toying with the idea of leaving the relative safety of the temple, wondering what awaited her beyond the walls. If the gods of Olympus had a queen, this was she. Hera, keeper of the Great Temple, wife of Zeus, and one of the few gods not armed for the battle outside. The gods had no qualms about women on the battlefield, so Hera’s absence was not due to some misogyny. Hera and her capable powers were to be the last defence; if the Great Temple were to fall, Hera had been left explicit instructions, a final effort that could either save or damn the city. On the eve of battle, Zeus had sought her counsel, whispering to her of love, of honour, of duty. In Hera, Zeus had sown the seeds of a plan, of a victory for the gods, a victory that necessitated her survival; if the gods were to survive, Hera would be the instrument of their salvation. The other gods knew of his plan: he gave them the courtesy of voicing their disagreement and their dissent, but it remained a courtesy. All of the gods knew the dangers that they would face, knew the toils that battle had already taken on their kind. The gods did not love Hera, not like they loved Zeus; what deference they showed her was tied to her age, to her powers and her position. Even as they bowed before her, they did not lower their eyes. It was her own fault: she had done little to earn their trust, allowing herself to be consumed with challenging the purity of her husband’s bastard children, of clinging to the Olympian throne. Her pride had made her many enemies, most of them in her own family. But as that family had withered and fallen to war, Hera had realised the error of her ways for one reason alone: Hera feared for her life. She bent once more, white and cream skirts gathered around her so she could kneel low, drifting one hand through the waters of the pool and sending ripples across its surface. The water sent fire through her senses; at once warm and cool, at once permissive and resisting her touch. In its waters, her reflection was that of a much older woman than she remembered, her hair and face turned grey and blue by the waters’ depths. A whip-crack of sound caused her to start, rising to her full height and letting the skirts fall from her lap. She dressed simply, as did most of the gods, beige robes covering her shoulders but leaving her arms bare, a fine golden braid tied around her waist and hanging loose on her right side. In her auburn hair she wore a simple golden diadem, two golden bars criss-crossing in waves. She turned to find Hermes mere feet behind her: in the vastness of the chamber, he was startlingly close. His robe was loose around his waist, hanging above his knees, his smooth chest bare to the elements, legs strapped into leather sandals. He wore a crimson cloak draped around his shoulders, hanging loose down his back as he leaned on his staff for support, a spiral of wood decorated with gold as tall as he was, the spiral doubling and twisting apart as the staff approached its tip. “My queen, I came as soon as I could.” His eyes darted low, refusing to meet her gaze. “Hermes?” Hera’s tone was brisk, pointed. She had enough of her time alone in this room; if Hermes had come with news, she would prefer that he share it. She stepped forward, her heart beating fast as he turned his face; he would not look at her, turning away as she tried to search his features. She knew that Hermes would not abandon the battle were it not necessary; she feared the worse. Her hand touched his chin, pulling his face to look at her own: even as she did so, his eyes moved away. His face was red, nearly as red as his cloak; his eyes were dark, burnt by smoke and tears. A long gash broke his youthful features, torn into his face, wet with blood as it stretched from his right eye down to his lip. “My queen.” He looked at her, tears falling freely. “It is Zeus. Your…Zeus has fallen.”